“-Juraci’s appointment probably wouldn’t even have been mentioned.”
“And?” Goncalves said.
“And we might have missed out on a possible lead. One of the great secrets of the sisterhood is this: we confide in our hairdressers, sometimes more than in anyone else we know. I think it might have something to do with their fingers massaging our scalps.”
“Mmmm,” Goncalves said. “Sexy.”
“Not at all,” Mara said. “Most of the really good ones are gay.”
“Who’s spoken to the Artist?” Silva said.
“Only the civil cops.”
“Where is he?”
“At his apartment.”
“Call him. Ask if Arnaldo and I can come over.”
“Now?”
“Now. We’ll need his address.”
Mara nodded and went out. Silva turned to Goncalves. “See if that fellow Jardin is at his salon. If he is, go over there and talk to him. Put him through records first, though, just in case we have something on him.”
“You think a high-society hairdresser has a rap sheet?”
“You never know. Bring your cell phone.”
“I always do,” Goncalves said. He stood up and took his suit jacket off the back of his chair.
“That leaves me,” Hector said.
“You,” Silva said, “go home and be nice to Gilda.”
“And tomorrow morning?”
“Tomorrow morning, first thing, you go out to Granja Viana and have a chat with that locksmith.”
Chapter Seven
“Jesus,” Arnaldo said, “Look at that.”
The street ahead, from curb to curb, was packed with media vans, reporters, and a horde of anxious fans.
“Back out,” Silva said. “We’ll park at the shopping center.”
They weren’t the only ones with that idea. The lot behind the Ibirapuera Shopping Center was nearly full, but they managed to snag one of the few remaining slots. They locked the car and set out for the Artist’s apartment on foot.
“I read in Veja that a one-bedroom goes for over a million,” Arnaldo said as they rounded the corner and came within sight of the building.
“And he has five bedrooms. I read the same article.”
“What’s an unmarried guy do with five bedrooms?”
“One to sleep in and four to keep his money. When he moves to Madrid, four won’t be enough.”
“Don’t remind me about Madrid,” Arnaldo said.
Wooden barriers had been put up to hold back the crowd. When Arnaldo made a move to shove one aside, a uniformed cop blew a blast on his whistle and ran over to stop him.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” he said.
Silva flashed his badge. “We’ve got an appointment with the Artist.”
Silva’s badge was gold trimmed with blue enamel, a sign of high rank. In a flash, the cop’s expression went from indignation to respect.
“Let me help, Senhor.”
He completed the shoving, stepped aside-and saluted.
The salute was a tip-off to the reporters. Strobe lights flashed, only a few at first, then by the score. The people not operating cameras started shouting questions.
Silva detested attention from the media. He forced himself not to break into a run.
“I’ve got a new one for you,” Arnaldo said, taking the reporters in stride, as he did most things.
“Later.”
“You might want to reconsider that. It’s about football.”
“About football? Okay, tell me.”
Arnaldo waited until they’d gained sanctuary in the lobby, then:
“This guy is sitting in the second row, center field, during the final game of the World Cup. Just below him, there’s an empty seat.”
Silva hit the button on the elevator.
“An empty seat? At the World Cup Final? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Of course I am. It’s a joke. Next to the empty seat is an old geezer who’s got his stuff all over it, program, beer, spare pair of eyeglasses, binoculars. A guy just above him, in the third row, figures he’s holding it for somebody. Halftime comes. Nobody shows up. By this time, everybody is looking at that empty seat and thinking how nice it would be if their girlfriends, sisters, parents, or whatever, could be there, sitting in it. Finally, the guy in the third row taps the geezer on the shoulder.
“‘Mind if I ask you a question?’
“The geezer turns around. ‘What?’
“‘Did you pay for that seat?’
“‘I did,’ the geezer says, ‘I bought it for my beloved wife of fifty-eight years.’
“‘And?’
“‘She died.’
“‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that, but, um… this is the World Cup, after all. Surely, you’ve got some relative, or maybe a friend, you could have offered it to?’
“‘I do,’ the geezer says. ‘I’ve got a lot of relatives, and I’ve got a lot of friends, and one after the other, I offered it to every last one of them.’
“‘And no takers?’
“‘Nope.’
“‘That’s amazing.’
“‘I thought so too,’ the geezer says. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought it was downright crazy. Can you imagine? They all decided to go to her funeral instead.’”
Silva was till chuckling when they reached Tico Santos’s front door. Somewhat to his surprise, the Artist answered the door himself.
“Which one of you is Chief Inspector Silva?” he said.
“I’m Silva. This is Agent Nunes.”
“Thanks for coming,” Tico said, as if he’d issued an invitation. “The living room’s this way.” He pointed with his chin. “Follow me.”
When Tico turned his back, Arnaldo whispered into Silva’s ear, “ Football giant, my ass.”
Tico was a head shorter than Arnaldo and probably fifty kilograms lighter.
“They mean it figuratively,” Silva said.
Tico heard him say something, but it was clear he hadn’t understood what it was. Without stopping, he spoke over his shoulder, answering a question Silva hadn’t asked.
“Maybe an hour ago,” he said. “I hired a private plane to get here.”
He didn’t bother to explain where he’d come from; he assumed Silva would know. And Silva did. Tico had been in Curitiba, in training, with the rest of the Brazilian team.
They entered a space about the size of a small ballroom. The far wall was windows, nothing but windows, floor to ceiling. Beyond them, a thousand lights sparkled in the mansions sprinkled over the hills of Morumbi.
The view was nothing less than spectacular.
So was the woman who was sitting on one of the white leather couches. She didn’t bother to get up.
